


Somewhere in Time

by Magnolia822



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Community: reel_merlin, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Inspired by a Movie, M/M, Reincarnation, Romance, Soulmates, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-11
Updated: 2012-09-11
Packaged: 2017-11-14 01:36:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/509925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnolia822/pseuds/Magnolia822
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the last leg of his American book tour, successful author Arthur Pendragon is instantly smitten by a portrait of a gorgeous young actor who’d once performed in his hotel. The only problem is the picture is sixty-five years old. Arthur doesn’t believe in magic, but nothing else can explain what happens next . . . when he wakes up in 1947.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Somewhere in Time

**Author's Note:**

> While this story shares the general premise of the film _Somewhere In Time_ , those familiar with the movie will find I fiddled with it quite a bit. There is no previous knowledge of the film necessary to read this fic. However, if you are feeling inclined, you may wish to listen to [Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MQVi5MFt5M8) by Rachmaninov, which has a central place in the movie. Call me stupidly romantic. 
> 
> Many thanks to my beta AsyaAna and to my pre-readers Mab_di and MssDare. 40_Miles Britpicked for me because she is a dear. The lovely and talented AlbyMangroves made a gorgeous drawing for the fic as well, which can be found on her [LJ here](http://alby-mangroves.livejournal.com/13238.html), and also below within the text. Make sure to go leave her some love! 
> 
> Disclaimer: Not Mine. Not even a little.

 

The party was like many Arthur had attended so far on his American book tour. Obsequious guests huddled round him to praise the reading, wanting to know how he got his ideas, gushing and offering anecdotes from their own lives which they hoped he would find interesting enough to make it into one of his stories. A room full of hipster gays and aging socialites, fine champagne, and food expensive enough to subsidize the budget of an impoverished country. The hotel itself was lovely, the finest they’d stayed at, a rambling place by the sea with an assured elegance and a century-long guest list of glitterati and dignitaries from all over the world.

Arthur was bored to tears.

“Oh, Arthur,” Morgana said with a sigh, grabbing his mobile and raising her eyebrow at the screen before shutting it off. “Can you stay off Grindr for five minutes? I know you make a living from being a slag, but honestly.”

“I do not make a living from being a slag,” he replied with faux-indignation. “I make a living from writing about being a slag. There’s a substantial difference.”

His half-sister rolled her eyes and stowed his mobile in her tiny handbag. “I’m not sure there is. But anyway, SexyGwaine34 can wait, at least until after dinner.”

“I’m sacking you.”

“You can’t. You’d never find another publicist so adept at managing the scandals produced by your hyperactive love life.”

“But it’s good for my mojo. Writers are supposed to be embroiled in scandal.”

“Not constantly.”

“Constantly is a relative term.”

Arthur pouted, and Morgana drew her arm through his and led him toward their table, where they were seated along with a reporter for _The San Diego Times_ , Arthur’s American publisher, and several professors from the host university. The reporter was one of those young, go-getter types with fierce eyes and an irritating habit of gliding her finger around the rim of her water glass when she was listening. She reminded Arthur of a shark in the camouflage of a neat, prim suit.

Talk at the table ranged from Arthur’s work—the professors were in creative literature, wanted to know about his process and snark about other writers—to the food, to politics and the upcoming presidential election. It was banal. Arthur’s palm itched for his mobile, and he thought about going out later, meeting a man for a quick fuck. Or perhaps he’d just go back to his room and continue getting pissed.

Midway through the dinner, the reporter—Morgause was her name, he recalled—turned to him and asked, “Are you happy with your life, Mr. Pendragon?”

Arthur paused with his drink lifted halfway to his lips. Oh, he knew this rot well enough, knew exactly what she was thinking and what she meant. Here he was, past thirty, a successful gay man queering the heteronormative mystery genre and under it all they still thought he was he was miserable, in pain, romanticizing promiscuity because he never had a mummy or some such ridiculousness.

He sipped his whiskey. “Are you?”

“Avoidance. How interesting. It was just a simple question.”

“Happiness is the absence of misery. I’m not miserable, ergo—”

“What is that, Kant?”

Arthur smirked. This was getting fun. “No. Pendragon.”

That earned him a wry smile. “You’re a hard man to get to know.”

“That’s how I ensure people buy my books.”

The night drew on, and after-dinner cocktails were served. Some people began to say their goodnights, and a dull headache started throbbing under Arthur’s temples, probably a case of jetlag and too much wine. Perhaps he’d have an early night after all.

He was just about to go collect Morgana when he felt someone grasp his arm. Whirling around, he came face to face with a wrinkled, stooped-over man who regarded him with piercing blue eyes. There was something arresting about them—a liveliness that seemed to contradict his age. Despite his fine clothes, he didn’t seem to belong to their party, and Arthur didn’t recognize him from the reading or dinner, though he normally had a keen eye for faces. Before Arthur could speak, the man thrust something into his hand and whispered what sounded like _come back to me_ , though the gravelly voice made it hard to decipher.

“Who are you?” Arthur stared at the man, then looked down at the object in his hand. It was an antique pocket watch with an intricate golden dragon filigree case. How unusual. He pressed it open and noted the time was stuck at 10:47: a broken watch, then, or one that needed to be wound. When he looked up again, he startled. The man was gone.

“Ready to retire, darling?”

His sister’s voice distracted him, and he turned round, holding the watch out.

“What’s that?” she asked.

Arthur shrugged. “An old man gave it to me, but I have no idea what for. Did you see him leave?”

“What old man?” Morgana squinted at the watch, then back at him. “What on God’s green earth are you talking about?”

“He just disappeared into thin air.” Arthur scanned the room again, trying to calculate the distance from where he stood to the closest exit. Even if the man had been much younger, it would have been nearly impossible for him to make it out of the room in the few seconds Arthur had been examining the watch. How very odd. His headache was growing worse and along with it, the nagging sensation that he was missing something very important.

Morgana’s expression had grown concerned. “I never saw any old man. Brother dear, I think you might have had a bit too much wine.”

“Perhaps so,” Arthur agreed. Though the watch in his hand said otherwise, he decided to let the matter rest. “Anyway, I’ve been a good lad, haven’t I? Can I have my mobile back?”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“That’s why you love me.”

 

~o~

The next morning Arthur slept late, finally rolling out of bed at half past eleven. He didn’t bother to shave, but showered and dressed, leaving Morgana a text message that he planned to go into town to explore.

 _Make sure you explore with your trousers on_ , came the reply. Not bloody likely.

He spent the day wandering and eventually found himself, after a brief exchange on his mobile, in a two-room bungalow near the beach.

“So you’re a writer,” the guy who called himself SexyGwaine34 said, wiping his mouth as he stood and adjusted his trousers. Arthur discarded the condom and tucked his softening cock back into his fly.

“That’s what they tell me. I’m just happy to make a living from a job that doesn’t require any actual work.”

SexyGwaine rolled his eyes and gestured over towards his sofa. Arthur didn’t normally make a habit out of staying for chitchat with a trick after a hook-up, but this bloke was fit. He followed.

“I’m sure it’s more work than all that. You’re just modest,” said SexyGwaine.

“I’m probably the furthest thing from modest you’ll ever meet.”

“No,” the guy replied, tossing his hair dramatically, “I think that position is already filled.”

Arthur grinned. SexyGwaine was definitely worth another go.

Later, as he made his way back to the hotel on foot, Arthur marvelled at the beauty of the city. It seemed almost too perfect, like the set of some Hollywood film: the people friendly, the sun always bright, exotic plants always flowering. Once in a while, though, he would glimpse a homeless man or woman camped on the street and the illusion of easy living would crack, remind him that this was a place with dirty secrets like any other.

They had been in America for almost two months now, and Arthur missed England. He missed the drizzle, the smallness of it, even his Luddite father, who’d insisted that an American tour would ‘ruin his mind’, and ‘incite debauchery’. Luckily, Uther Pendragon didn’t really know what Arthur got up to at home or abroad. He didn’t believe in the Internet.

His mobile buzzed in his pocket, the display announcing a message from Morgana.

_Going out for dinner w/friend. Can u fend for self?_

He texted back: _Somehow I’ll muddle through._

The afternoon with SexyGwaine, whose real name had turned out to be Mike, had left Arthur sated and his mind free to turn again to his next novel. It would be the last of a trilogy of anticipated mysteries for which he’d already received a rather substantial advance. In the previous installation, his hero, an openly gay Bond-like figure had met his match in a vicious but attractive assassin, and now his readers expected the culmination of their antagonism to end between the sheets. Arthur generally resisted pandering to fans, but his recent commercial success meant that his publisher was pressuring him to deliver a ‘satisfying’ ending. She probably wouldn’t appreciate the fact that he planned to kill off his hero, thus avoiding the maudlin hetero-happily-ever-after narrative he’d spent his entire career disparaging. Life wasn’t Austen. It was more like Hardy, but with less austere punishments for sexual indiscretions, at least in Great Britain.

Finally, the hotel came into view, its red clay roof and turrets dramatically offset by the clear blue sky. It would, Arthur couldn’t deny, make an excellent backdrop for one of his books. A shame they only had one more night before moving on to San Francisco, the last stop on the tour. You couldn’t be a queer author without paying homage to the queerest city in America.

He entered the airy foyer to greet the hullabaloo of wedding preparations. A bride and groom were being photographed near the lifts, so Arthur decided to take a different route to his room. He skirted around the petite woman in the overly gauzy—gaudy—dress and headed down the left corridor toward the stairs. He’d change and take dinner alone in the dining room, maybe do a bit of writing. An idea was already forming, the last scene in his book, a bittersweet ending, perhaps a compromise, when Arthur’s attention was arrested by a black and white portrait on the wall, just to the right of the stairwell.

The dark-haired man in the picture was the most beautiful he’d ever seen. He wasn’t the type that usually caught Arthur’s eye, fey while Arthur preferred masculine men, but there was something about him that made Arthur stop and stare. The man’s face was youthful and open with wide, far-set eyes and lips to which Arthur would, if he could write poetry, dedicate a sonnet. They were cast in an impish smile, as if he was looking upon something pleasing just beyond the camera lens, and the overall effect was mesmerizing. Arthur’s palms went clammy, and his heart picked up speed. This was the photograph of a man in love, or in love with the camera, at least.

 _M. Emrys._ No date. No descriptive placard. Just a still of a gorgeous, probably long-dead young man. The realisation brought with it an acute sense of loss, and Arthur chastised himself for his romanticism. Still, his curiosity demanded satisfaction.

“Excuse me,” he asked, turning as an ancient porter passed by. The man at first didn’t appear to hear him. He kept walking until Arthur spoke louder, and then he turned, surprised. “Excuse me,” Arthur said again, “but I was wondering if you know anything about the man in this photo.”

The porter squinted at Arthur through thick-framed glasses, then looked to the picture, coming closer. “That’s Merlin Emrys.”

“Merlin. Interesting name.” Something prickled at the back of Arthur’s scalp, like the ghost of a wind. “Who is he?”

A strange expression passed over the man’s face, but it was gone before Arthur could name it.

“He was an actor.”

Arthur studied the photograph again. He considered himself a classic film buff, but though there was something uncannily familiar about Merlin Emrys, he couldn’t recall ever seeing him act.

“What films was he in?”

“Oh no,” said the old man. “He was stage actor, famous in his day. Never made it to Hollywood.”

“When was this photograph taken?”

The porter raised his eyebrows and looked toward the ceiling, letting out a thoughtful whistle. “Oh, the late forties, just after the war. That picture was taken here at this hotel.”

Arthur’s stomach clenched at the news. Of course he’d realized the photograph was old—it was ridiculous to be disappointed. Glancing back at the picture, Arthur was struck again, anew. Emry’s face was so lively his portrait seemed to breathe; no wonder he’d been an actor. He wore a double-breasted suit jacket with a broad lapel that seemed almost too bold for his frame, and in the background Arthur could make out flowers. Perhaps he’d been photographed outside on the grounds, then.

“He performed here?” There was an old theatre in the hotel, but Arthur hadn’t yet had time to explore.

“Yessir, he did. I’d just started working here and the man wasn’t much older than myself. Certainly makes an impression, doesn’t he?” The old porter—a glance at his nametag gave the name S. Kilgharrah—laughed.

“What’s so funny?” Arthur asked, confused.

“Just that you’d be interested in this picture. But it makes sense you’d be drawn to it.”

Arthur bristled. He wasn’t an obviously gay man by American standards, but he disdained preconceptions of any sort. “Oh, really? What’s that supposed to mean?”

The porter smiled enigmatically. “This hotel has many secrets. Perhaps you’ll discover some of them during your time with us.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Do you believe in magic?”

Arthur snorted. This man was clearly senile. “No. No, I don’t believe in magic.”

“You will, Arthur Pendragon.”

It wasn’t until Arthur was back in his room that he realised he’d never told the old porter his name.

 

~o~

Dinner was delicious, but while Arthur brought his notebook, he couldn’t concentrate or jot a single note. An unsettled feeling had descended upon him after his conversation with the porter, and he couldn’t stop thinking about Merlin Emrys. He didn’t question himself too closely when he chose to take the stairs again instead of the lift after paying the bill.

“Who are you?” he asked the picture, leaning close to get a good look at the sculpted cheekbones. The man’s eyebrows seemed to arch slightly in response. Sighing at himself for his ridiculous fancy, Arthur reluctantly turned and made his way up the two flights to his room, wondering why his heart felt leaden, as if he was mourning someone he’d never known. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling, so he ordered another bottle of wine and lounged on his bed until sleep finally claimed him.

That night, he dreamt of a young man with wide eyes and a deep laugh. There was a strange forest and a cave, and an army of soldiers bearing red and gold.

When he woke, the dim light filtering through the shades told him it was early. He groped blindly for his mobile, only to find it missing from the nightstand. He cursed and sat up, glancing round the room, trying to recall in the midst of his hangover where he’d put it before he’d gone to bed. There was a possibility he’d left it at the restaurant.

He reached for the hotel phone instead, which he hadn’t before noticed was an old-fashioned, dialless relic—how quaint—and asked for the concierge.

“I’d like the restaurant please,” he said.

“Good morning, sir. If you’d like breakfast, it would be our pleasure to order for you. What would you like?”

“No, I don’t want breakfast. I need to speak with the maitre’d.”

“Very good, sir.”

He waited as his call was transferred, tapping his foot impatiently against the Persian rug until another voice answered, “Good morning. How can I help you?”

“This is Arthur Pendragon in room 305. I think I left my mobile at dinner last night. Did anyone turn one in?”

There was a pause at the end of the line. “I’m sorry, sir?”

Arthur spoke very slowly, remembering that Americans often misunderstood the term. “My _cell_ phone. I think I left it at dinner. Has anyone turned in a cell phone?”

That got him a befuddled, “No, sir, nothing of the sort. I’m not exactly sure what you mean. This is the only phone in the restaurant.”

“Transfer me back to the concierge,” Arthur snapped. But the concierge was no help, either. When Arthur asked for Morgana’s room, the man had the audacity to tell him there was no one by that name checked into the hotel, though Arthur knew his sister was just next-door. For a five-star resort, buffoons ran the place. Frustrated, Arthur went to the closet and opened it, only to find that his regular clothes had disappeared and been replaced with an assortment of crisp shirts and suits of various sedate colours. This was Morgana’s idea of some joke, he was sure, probably to punish him for being a trollop and making her life difficult. He sighed and grabbed the hotel robe instead before stalking out into the corridor to her door. He pounded loudly, calling his sister’s name along with an array of choice curses until it opened.

It was not Morgana. A middle-aged woman, hair in curlers and an alarmed expression on her face, appeared with arms wrapped protectively around her torso.

“May I help you?” she asked, polite despite Arthur’s tirade.

“You’re . . . not Morgana.”

“No, I’m not. I’m afraid you have the wrong room.” She began to shut the door, but before it closed Arthur heard a man’s voice ring out, “Doris, who’s out there?”

He stood, mouth open, for a few beats before he sprung into action. Either this was the most elaborate hoax ever—better than the most outrageous pranks they’d played on each other as children—or he was dreaming. For good measure, he pinched himself, hard.

Ouch. Not dreaming.

Back in his room, Arthur paced, then looked out the window towards the winding road that led to the hotel from the main thoroughfare. He sucked in a breath at the sight, the beginnings of panic setting in. Unless the hotel was hosting a classic car show this weekend, something very strange was going on.

While he’d had an overactive imagination his entire life, the clues were adding up to something even he couldn’t comprehend. He ransacked the room, wishing he’d paid closer attention to the details when he’d checked in. There’d been a telly, hadn’t there? A flat screen hidden away in a mahogany entertainment centre, but that was gone, replaced with more unfamiliar—old-fashioned—suits. There was nothing digital in the entire room. Jesus.

That’s when he noticed the antique pocket watch, left where he’d placed it on the dresser two nights before. He’d been so beset by fancy for Merlin Emrys, he’d entirely forgotten about the strange encounter with the old man who’d thrust the watch into his hand and offered no further explanation. He grabbed it up and flipped it open, only to notice that the time had started again, reading 8:15, the second hand ticking away. Hadn’t the bloody thing been broken before?

_Do you believe in magic?_

Buggeration, perhaps someone had put something into his wine the night before, some sort of unknown and potent hallucinogen. His rational mind latched onto that as he spun around, at a loss for the first time in his adult life. This couldn’t be happening, this couldn’t be real. He closed his eyes and counted to ten, sure that when he opened them things would be back to normal. They weren’t. Finally, he sank down onto the bed, staring at the watch in his hands. There was only one way to find out what was really going on.

 

~o~

Arthur chuckled, fighting back hysteria as he considered himself in the mirror. The charcoal grey trousers were wide-legged, the shoulders to the jacket padded, giving him a much broader frame than he was used to, but other than that the clothes fit to a tee. He looked like he was going to a mid-century costume party, but apparently the period suited him.

He couldn’t even muster surprise when he found a roll of hundred-dollar notes in the trouser pocket.

By the time he entered the lobby it was later in the morning. Guests were milling around, some checking in, some chatting and standing idly about. Two austerely-dressed old women sat in high-backed chairs getting information from the concierge desk, and Arthur fought the urge to interrupt, grab the man they were speaking to by the collar and demand he produce Arthur’s mobile and sister. It was becoming clearer by the moment, though, that such actions would be futile. Arthur tried not to gawp, but that was nearly impossible, since it was as if he’d been transported into the middle of a Merchant-Ivory Productions set. While the lobby of the hotel was not much different from what he remembered, all of the guests were dressed in vintage clothes: the women with knee-length skirts and fitted jackets, the men with trousers not unlike his own. More than a few of the men sported moustaches, and both men and women had an alarming penchant for hats. He looked around for a movie crew, hopeful, but was only met by a few curious glances. Realising he must look a sight standing rigid in the middle of the floor, craning his neck and staring, he forced his legs to carry him toward the front desk.

A young woman of about twenty-five greeted him. She had bright lipstick and her coifed hair was swept behind her ears in thick-bunched curls.

“May I help you, sir?” she asked. Arthur glanced down, searching in vain for the computer he’d seen when they’d checked in two days before.

“Yes, um,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’m looking for a porter—a bellhop—last name Kilgharrah.”

Her smile faltered only for a moment, then she beamed up at him. “I don’t believe there’s anyone by that name working here.”

“There is,” Arthur said, a hint of desperation in his voice. For some reason, it seemed Kilgharrah was his only hope for finding out what had happened. “I know there is. He said he started last year.”

The woman’s puzzled expression appeared to lift. “Oh! You must mean Stephen, I think? He’s not a porter, if that’s what he told you. That rascal. He’s just over there.”

Arthur looked to where she was gesturing, shocked when he noted a youth of not more than sixteen cleaning up a spill with a mop, edging out of the way as people strode by him. Arthur felt foolish. How could he expect a teenager to help him out of his predicament? When he looked back to the hotel clerk, she was giving him a suspicious eyebrow-raise. He must seem a pervert inquiring after such a young boy.

“But I can send for a bellhop if you need assistance, sir,” she said. “What room are you in?”

“Thank you. That won’t be necessary.” For the first time, he noticed an advert just beyond the front desk.

**Tonight! Merlin Emrys stars in The Boy from Avalon. Tickets sold here!**

“But I would like to purchase a ticket for tonight’s performance,” he continued, heart beating madly in his chest. He wondered if he were going insane. “The closest you have to the front.”

 

~o~

When Arthur arrived at half-seven, the theatre was full of people in fine dress. He’d been able to procure himself a dinner jacket at the last moment at a tailor in town—an adventure he wouldn’t soon forget—and a pair of too-shiny wingtips to match. Not used to wearing ties, Arthur tugged at the knot around his neck as he searched for his seat in the third row, not sure why his whole body was thrumming with adrenaline. This probably wasn’t even the real Merlin Emrys. Fuck’s sake, this whole thing probably wasn’t real.

 _Do you really believe that,_ a voice in his head asked, _when you were almost run over by a mint-condition, 1946 Austin while crossing the street this afternoon?_

And then there was the poster of Merlin he’d seen later in the day when he’d stopped into a coffee shop for lunch—a meal which had cost him a dollar forty. Though the poster wasn’t as high quality as the picture from the hotel, there had been no doubt in his mind it was the same man. Standing with the rest of his cast-mates, Merlin looked taller and broader about the shoulders than Arthur had expected. He’d stared until he realised he was barring the way of the door, fingering the ticket in his pocket.

Whatever had happened, be it a dream, a hallucination or—Arthur had to laugh at himself—magic, he was here to see it through to the end. For all he knew, the man was a total bore and a horrible actor to boot. Maybe up close he wasn’t charming at all. There was no explanation for Arthur’s clammy hands as he took his seat, asking the woman at the end of the row to excuse him as he made his way past. He sank down into his chair, clutching the programme. A picture of Merlin stared up from it, a serene smile on his face showing just a glimpse of straight teeth. Not charming in the slightest.

After what seemed an eternity, the house lights finally dimmed. And then Merlin appeared on the stage.

He was dressed in humble clothes, and there was dirt smudged on his face, a rucksack slung casually over his shoulder. He stood in the centre in total darkness, save one spotlight that seemed to light him from within. God, he was even more handsome than the picture had led Arthur to believe, and with a presence that filled the entire room. He gazed out into the theatre, scanning it as if it were a horizon and not a sea of anonymous faces. Then he spoke.

“It’s nothin’ like I imagined,” he said in a lilting Irish brogue, “nothing a’tall.”

“Oi, what did you imagine, then, mate?” came a voice from stage right. Another man thumped over to Merlin, dragging his left leg as though it were lame. “A bloody palace?”

“No, of course not. I just expected, well . . . I’m not sure what I expected.”

The burly fellow tutted. “This is a poor town, and you’re to be the physician’s assistant. Come now, lad, let’s get you in and settled. The cholera will keep for another hour.”

Merlin nodded and followed the limping man, his face a perfect balance of resignation and disappointment.

It was a brutally sad play—the story of a young man of unknown parentage who studies medicine with a country doctor and rises through the ranks of society, only to fall ill and die himself once he reaches the height of his career—and as Arthur watched he became aware of two certainties.

The first was that Merlin was perhaps the most gifted actor he’d ever seen perform. He inhabited his character, delivering his lines with such conviction and ease that the fourth wall slipped away. There was something otherworldly about Merlin, but yet he was simultaneously so familiar that the ache in Arthur’s chest that had originated the moment he saw the portrait on the wall intensified, becoming an unbearable, throbbing thing. He, Arthur Pendragon, the man who hadn’t cried since he was a boy, wiped warm tears away with his sleeve as the curtains closed.

Which led him to the second conviction: he had to meet Merlin.

After the curtain call, Arthur excused himself, nearly climbing over his row mates in his haste to escape. He skidded to a stop near the exit, just in time to see Merlin disappear off the stage.

“Excuse me. How do I get backstage?” he asked a nearby usher.

“Staff and family only,” the young man replied. Arthur ground his teeth, resisting the urge to grab his arm, shake it and demand.

“Merlin Emrys is a friend. He’s expecting me.” The lie danced of Arthur’s tongue with ease, and the usher seemed appeased, giving him the directions to the actors’ dressing area.

Arthur made his way down the corridor to the left, pausing to relieve a vase of its roses, the wet stems of which dripped on his trouser leg. A flood of people had begun to fill the area, mostly stagehands, well-wishers, and a few actors with lesser roles. The air was thick with laughter and the residual energy of a stellar performance.

The usher had told him the third door on the right, and so, steeling himself, roses in hand, Arthur knocked. At first no one answered, and he wondered if he’d perhaps got it wrong, or if Merlin hadn’t yet returned to his dressing room. He caught the eye of a woman who he recognised as one of the nurses in the play. She gave him a smile before he turned to knock again.

Underneath the din in the corridor, Arthur thought he could make out voices inside. He pressed his ear against the door and then found himself flailing to stay upright as it was yanked open, bringing him face-to-face with a middle-aged man. His chin-length hair was nearly jet-black, and his eyes were cold.

“May I help you?” he asked, the question tempered by irritation, as if Arthur had interrupted something important.

“I’m . . . here to see Mr. Emrys,” Arthur said, feeling foolish as he held the dripping bouquet. Just beyond the man’s head, he could see a makeup table, lit bright.

The man’s dark eyes assessed him, latching on the flowers before flicking away. “Mr. Emrys isn’t receiving visitors tonight. He needs to rest.”

“I won’t take up much of his time, I just wanted to—”

“Agravaine, who is it?”

The voice wasn’t the one Arthur had expected. It held no trace of the southern Irish brogue from the play, being much lower, and with a cadence that reminded Arthur of his Welsh gran. Merlin, freshly changed into a crisp white shirt, appeared next to the older man, placing one hand on his shoulder and looking out into the corridor at Arthur. The words Arthur was about to speak lodged in his throat, choking him. Impulsively, he thrust the flowers out instead, causing the older man to quickly step to the side to avoid getting wet. Merlin laughed and came forward.

“I presume these are for me?”

“Yes,” Arthur said, finding his voice. “They’re for you, for your performance. To congratulate you.” The words rang came out sounding jumpy, even to his own ears. _Christ, Pendragon, it’s only a boy. Get a hold of yourself._ “It was truly amazing. You’re . . . incredible.” Could he sound like a more imbecilic acolyte?

Merlin took the flowers, dipping his head down to nose them briefly before smiling up again. His eyes crinkled around the corners, and Arthur thought he detected a faint blush on his cheeks. After seeing Merlin so confident on the stage, his shy hesitancy was endearing.

The older man cleared his throat. “Merlin? We have an engagement.”

“Yes, yes,” Merlin said, waving his hand, “just give me a moment.” Agravaine retreated into the dressing room at the dismissal, but Merlin’s eyes were still fixed on Arthur.

“Thank you again for the flowers.”

“It’s nothing . . . I confess I liberated them from a hotel vase on my way backstage.” Arthur scratched the back of his neck, sheepish.

Instead of fading, Merlin’s smile grew wider. “Ah, so this was an impulsive visit?”

“I wasn’t expecting to be here tonight.” There was more truth to the words than Arthur had intended.

“Well, I love them, despite the fact they’re nicked. Thanks.” A blush crept back onto Merlin’s cheeks. “I keep saying that, don’t I?”

“You’re very welcome.” Arthur sought out something, anything, to prolong the conversation, and finally came out with, “So you’re from England.”

“Wales, actually.”

“That’s what I thought, your accent.” Arthur smiled. “But the brogue you used for the play was so authentic.”

Merlin seemed pleased. “I’ve been practicing for weeks!”

“It’s paid off. So, er, are you enjoying your time in the States?”

“Yes, very much so. The audiences have been so kind. And you?”

Merlin’s shirt was unbuttoned at the neck, displaying a few wisps of dark hair and a sculpted collarbone. Arthur swallowed. “It’s lovely.”

As soon as he spoke the words, Arthur realised he’d been staring. He tore his eyes away, focussing back on Merlin’s face. They were standing just close enough for Arthur to smell his clean sweat, feel the heat coming off his body. Something niggled in a long-forgotten corner of his mind, something huge and just beyond his capability to grasp. If he chased it, it would disappear completely.

Beyond the door, the older man said something. Merlin turned his head and gave an impatient nod before turning back to Arthur with an apologetic smile.

“I’m afraid I have somewhere to be,” Merlin said.

The idea of losing this, losing Merlin to whatever professional or social obligations waited for him, set Arthur’s teeth on edge.

“How long are you here?”

“Two more nights. Then we’re moving on.”

Arthur shuffled on his feet. “Would you have a drink with me tomorrow. Or coffee? Please.”

After another surreptitious glance over his shoulder, Merlin nodded. “Where?”

“By the pool at two.”

“Yes,” Merlin whispered.

Before Arthur could say another word, the door was carefully shut on him.

 

~o~

Arthur woke the next day half-expecting to be back in his hotel room in 2012, the previous day an elaborate dream. He held his breath and looked around, sighing in relief when he recognized the dinner jacket he’d draped over the desk chair the evening before. The pocket watch read half-nine.

He would see Merlin again today.

Arthur spent most of the day in nervous anticipation. Not wanting to be late, he arrived near the pool a few minutes earlier than the designated time, ordering a gin and tonic at the bar and taking a seat at a vacant table. Many of the women sat nearly fully dressed in groups of threes and fours, drinking tall summery drinks and playing cards or chatting. A lone man was doing laps in the pool.

It was bright and warm, and Arthur felt himself begin to sweat as the time ticked by, two o’clock passing without a sign of Merlin. Perhaps he couldn’t get away after all, or maybe he’d merely assented to the date to get rid of Arthur. The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth, which he washed down with a second drink.

“Hello,” said a man’s voice. Arthur stilled and turned around, only to find Merlin standing not three feet behind him, looking chagrined. “I’m sorry for the delay; I wanted to send word that I’d be late, but I realised you never gave me your name.”

Arthur stood, pushing back the wicker chair, his irritation quickly dissipating.

“How foolish of me,” Arthur said. “Arthur Pendragon.”

He thought he saw something, a moment of confusion, pass over Merlin’s face, but it was gone as soon as he’d noticed it.

“Pleased to meet you, Arthur,” Merlin said, taking his hand.

Since he was old enough to read—and judge—Arthur had encountered many literary and not-so-literary descriptions of electricity passing between would-be lovers at their first touch. He’d always scoffed at the more florid descriptions, attributing them to the fancy of men and women who’d never really experienced love. Love and lust for Arthur were one, a chemical reaction, a moment of insanity brought to completion, and under control, with orgasm. Those trite descriptions, relying on over-used and flaccid tropes, were at the best of times amusing, at the worst, nausea-inducing. He’d congratulated himself for never deigning to submit to that convention in his own writing.

What he felt at the touch of Merlin’s hand in his wasn’t electric, it wasn’t shock—it was a perfect recognition of every line of a palm, of the curl of long, dexterous fingers. Arthur stared at the hand in his and felt more at home than he ever had, but also so far away from everything he’d ever known. He traced the back of Merlin’s hand with his thumb, trying to commit it in memory.

“Arthur?”

He cleared his throat and broke the connection. “Glad to meet you . . . formally,” he said, coming back to himself.

Merlin smiled, but a quick glance over his shoulder made Arthur flinch. They were in public, after all.

“Would you like to go for a walk?” he asked.

“Where?”

“On the beach.”

“I’d love that.”

They spoke of simple things on the way down the boardwalk toward the shore, of the weather, of the differences from England. There were children on the sand flying kites, mothers keeping watchful eyes on others playing in the rough surf, and Arthur suggested they leave their shoes behind at the base of the stairs and roll up their trouser-legs. Merlin walked beside him down the hot beach toward the firm, wetter sand at the tide’s edge.

“How long have you been an actor?”

“Oh,” Merlin sighed. “If you’d asked my mum, she’d have said since I was born, but I only got into the profession after she died.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Thank you. It’s been a long time, but I still miss her all the time. I never knew my father, either. Agravaine has been the closest thing I’ve ever had.” Merlin flushed, his eyes darting away. “I have no idea why I just told you all that.”

Arthur’s heart thumped a slow, almost painful beat; hopefully Merlin’s openness was a result of his comfort with Arthur, rather than nervousness.

“Agravaine—that’s the man from last night?” Arthur asked casually, already knowing the answer but wanting to know more. His instincts had told him that the sneering man with the dark, calculating eyes thought of Merlin as his property, not his son.

“Yes,” Merlin said. “You have to forgive him for being an arse; he’s just protective of me. He’s my manager, the one who discovered me. I owe him so much.”

Arthur could understand the impulse to protect Merlin; just knowing him for a short time had awakened all sorts of urges that Arthur had always thought himself lacking. But he also suspected Merlin was much stronger than his appearance suggested. “And I presume one of his duties is protecting you from strange men.”

“You’re not so very strange.” Merlin’s cheeks pinked. If there was any doubt that Merlin was interested in men, that blush erased it.

“You don’t know me very well.”

“It’s odd,” Merlin said, pausing to look out over the sea. His eyes scanned the horizon and then glanced back to Arthur. “But I feel like I _do_ know you. Are you sure we haven’t met before?”

“We haven’t, let me assure you.”

“Hmm.” Merlin toed the sand, digging his foot underneath, like Arthur had as a child. His toes were long and delicate, like his fingers, and for a searing moment Arthur imagined sucking one into his mouth as he slid inside . . . “So tell me then, Arthur Pendragon, what there is to know of you.”

“My mother died when I was born.” Arthur didn’t know why he started there, but his confession seemed to get Merlin’s attention. He looked up, mouth set in a grim line of understanding.

“And your father?”

“Is a tyrant, or would be, if he had a kingdom. Luckily the only thing he has to rule over is an estate in Devonshire.” They started walking again, leaving the hotel beach behind, their arms occasionally brushing. Arthur wished he could take Merlin’s hand, had never wanted something so chaste or simple with another man.

For some reason, Arthur let his life story spill from his lips, with choice omissions, of course. He spoke of growing up in a giant, empty house until his father’s indiscretion with a servant brought him a little sister. He told of how Morgana had filled his life with happiness, and they tormented the cook, Alice, and each other. Just thinking of his sister made his chest tighten a little—would he ever see her again? Even considering that question made him, for the first time since this had happened to him, certain that this was real, not some figment of an overactive imagination or a dream. Now was not the time to push this line of thought to its conclusion, though, not with Merlin smiling and asking him questions. Merlin was a good listener, he thought, and he wondered if it were a part of his personality that made him such a fine actor.

“So now you know everything there is to know about me,” he said finally, feeling a bit silly. They’d walked for almost an hour and he’d succeeded in talking Merlin’s adorably large ears off.

“I hardly think that’s true.” Merlin smiled.

“Oh, you think I’m hiding something?” He was—a big something. Several big somethings, if he were honest about it, the most pressing right now being the impossible desire to push Merlin into the sand and free him of his trousers.

“You’re a writer . . . in my experience writers are a dodgy lot.”

“Oh, do tell me of your experience with writers,” Arthur teased.

Merlin did know quite a few, mostly playwrights, even some big names that left Arthur gawping. It wasn’t everyday you met someone who had dined with Tennessee Williams before he’d written _A Streetcar Named Desire_.

“We should probably turn back,” Merlin said after they’d walked so far down the beach, they were the only two people in sight.

“Yes, let’s,” Arthur reluctantly agreed as they paused to reverse direction. “So you started on the stage after your mother died?”

“Yes. I was just sixteen.”

When Merlin said no more, Arthur thought the subject was closed, but then, Merlin spoke again, his voice soft under the call and response of the waves.

“She died of influenza, and I was sent to live with my aunt. Aunt Nimueh wasn’t . . . she wasn’t a pleasant woman. So I ran away to Cardiff. That’s where I met Agravaine, an old friend of my father’s. He was looking for boy actors to play ladies’ parts.”

Even with the strong line of Merlin’s jaw and his pronounced Adam’s apple, Arthur could imagine that at sixteen, with a plumper face and those full lips, Merlin might have passed for a girl.

The thought made him curious. “How old are you now?”

“Twenty-two.”

So young, nearly ten years Arthur’s junior. He supposed he should feel uncomfortable, but he didn’t. Their shoulders brushed again, and ahead Arthur could see dots that represented people, the faint outline of the hotel against the sky. They wouldn’t be alone for long.

Merlin followed his gaze. “For someone who professes to be an admirer, you seem to know very little about me. You haven’t done your research.”

“I prefer hearing it from you.”

Merlin sighed, then was quiet. “It’s . . . lonely, travelling. Sometimes I wish I—I wish I had someone, but there’s no time for that. Agravaine says I need to dedicate all of my time to my art, and he’s right, I know he’s right. He only wants the best for me. But it’s hard, I want—”

 

Later, Arthur would wonder what had possessed him, how it had happened, but one moment Merlin was speaking of being alone and the next Arthur was tugging him close, silencing him with a kiss. Merlin sagged against him as their mouths met, salty from the sea air, a little moan escaping his lips as Arthur quested further with his tongue, dipping it inside to slide against Merlin’s. He ran his hands across Merlin’s spine to find a place to hold, afraid of doing something to scare Merlin away, and finally settled on his shoulders, sweaty underneath his white linen shirt. But Merlin didn’t seem at all afraid. He pressed closer, his thigh slotting between Arthur’s, arousal growing hard against Arthur’s hip.

Merlin kissed so sweetly, like he was born to it, and Arthur drank it in, using one hand to cup Merlin’s cheek and angle his head.

When they finally broke away, Merlin gently dislodging himself by pressing against Arthur’s shoulders, his blue eyes were dark. He looked perfect, slightly debauched, and Arthur wanted to keep holding him.

“What if someone sees?” Merlin asked, face flushed.

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking,” Arthur replied, which was true. He’d only known he had to do it.

“It’s . . . it’s all right.” Merlin licked his lips. “I wanted it . . . I just . . . it’s . . .”

Arthur held out his hand, and Merlin took it, briefly, before they started walking again. “You don’t have to explain.”

The tide had begun coming in, washing over their feet and slashing up their legs to wet their trousers. Merlin laughed and, with a childish exuberance, raced forward toward the ocean as the wave receded.

“You’ll be soaked!” Arthur called out, laughing. Merlin turned and beckoned, and just at that moment was hit with another wave, the force of which nearly knocked him over.

“So what?” Merlin cried, uncaring that he was wet through to the waist. “Come on, Arthur. Don’t tell me you’re afraid!”

That did it. Arthur lunged forward at the ebbing wave, chasing it and then turning on his heels to flee the next onslaught. Merlin was braver, tempting fate by standing in the foam until the crest was nearly upon him, then sprinting up the beach past Arthur to the dry sand. He collapsed on his arse, splaying his long legs out in front of him and letting his head loll back. The sun shone down on him, making his dark hair gleam.

Arthur followed, sitting as close as he dared, not wanting to intrude on Merlin’s space, but not wanting to be far away, either. It pleased him when Merlin edged closer.

“I don’t want to go back yet,” Merlin said.

“Let’s not.”

“I can’t . . . Agravaine would murder me. I should be in costume in an hour.”

At the utterance of Merlin’s mentor’s name, Arthur stiffened. “And do you always do what he says?”

Merlin met the accusation with a challenging stare. “No, I don’t, as a matter of fact. He didn’t want me to meet you today, for one. And yet here I am.” This time, it was Merlin who leaned in for a kiss, using his sandy hands to draw Arthur near, sliding his fingers through Arthur’s hair and locking their mouths together. Arthur let Merlin do what he would, let him explore his mouth, wondering how many others Merlin had kissed, or if he could be lucky enough to be the first.

When they pulled away this time, it was with reluctance. Arthur was hard, straining and uncomfortable, but there were figures approaching from the distance.

He stood and offered Merlin his hand. Merlin took it and allowed himself to be pulled up, settling for a moment in Arthur’s arms before breaking away. They walked for a while without speaking.

“Will you come to the show tonight?” Merlin asked, interrupting the silence.

“I’m sorry. I can’t.”

Merlin looked crestfallen. “I shouldn’t have presumed you haven’t other plans.”

“No, you misunderstand. I tried to get a ticket but the performance was sold out.”

“Ah, but you know the star.” His eyes were laughing, but there was seriousness underneath, as if he would say more. “I’ll leave one for you at the front desk.”

“Okay,” Arthur said. “Perfect.”

“And . . . if you like, you can come backstage again. I’ll . . . be sure to be alone.”

“Yes.”

Arthur’s whole body vibrated with the unspoken promise, his hands itching to reach out and have Merlin’s mouth again, but they’d made their way back to the hotel beach and that was quite an impossibility. Suddenly, beside him, Merlin froze.

“Damn,” he said.

“What—” But then Arthur saw the answer to his question walking down the beach, his face cast in a grim scowl.

Agravaine glared, his arms crossed. He looked austere, out of place on the beach with his black suit. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. We have a performance, Merlin, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“I hadn’t,” Merlin said stiffly. “I’ll be there in a moment.”

“You’ll be there now,” Agravaine said, his eyes latching on Arthur. He saw the distrust and anger . . . and something else. Jealousy. For a moment, Arthur feared there might even be something between them. He bristled, but before he could tell Agravaine that he couldn’t speak to Merlin in that fashion, Merlin was smiling sadly back at him.

“I had a nice time, Arthur,” Merlin said. “Remember . . .what we talked about.”

Arthur could only watch, words of protest lodged in his throat, as Merlin followed Agravaine toward the boardwalk.

 

~o~

Arthur spent the remainder of his afternoon walking the grounds and trying desperately not to name the feeling welling inside his chest. It couldn’t be . . . he’d only known Merlin for a mere day. His heart, though, beat a different rhythm, denying his cynical realism in spite of his insistence that such thoughts were madness. And his body . . . fuck, there was no denying he wanted Merlin, badly. But he suspected his time here was fleeting, and how could he do that to Merlin—sleep with him only to disappear into thin air? How could he do that to himself? And there was the possibility that this new state of things was permanent, that he’d never again see his sister or father, never return to his career. That prospect was less alarming than he’d initially imagined now that he’d met Merlin.

Agravaine’s hold on Merlin was unsettling. From what Arthur had ascertained of their relationship, Merlin felt an obligation toward the older man that was based, perhaps erroneously, on the gratefulness of being saved from what must have felt like oblivion. Arthur could understand gratitude—but Agravaine’s motives were far from pure, and Merlin by now must have discharged his duty. The older man seemed to have him in thrall, somehow, and Arthur suspected there was still more to the story.

On his way back to the hotel through the garden footpath, he noticed a slight commotion to the right. A photographer with a large tripod was set up, and before him stood the cast of the play. Arthur recognized Merlin right away, dressed in a familiar suit. His breath caught in his throat as the secondary actors moved to the side, leaving Merlin front and centre. God, it couldn’t be, but it was . . . the exact location of the photograph Arthur had seen, the same suit jacket . . .

Merlin looked over at him, and the secret smile that bloomed on his face was for him, for Arthur.

He would have Merlin, whatever the cost.

 

~o~

As promised, Merlin had left a ticket for Arthur at the front desk, along with a note— _please come_ —that Arthur had foolishly read again and again, and now held in his pocket. He sat through the play in a state of giddiness, hardly able to focus. He hadn’t been wrong before—Merlin’s performance was even more poignant than it had been the previous evening. A glance at the other theatregoers’ faces showed they were mesmerised by him, and Arthur felt something like pride. Truly this was what Merlin was meant to do.

Backstage after the show, Arthur knocked on Merlin’s dressing room door, doing his best to calm nerves he hadn’t felt the like of since he was a teenager.

Merlin answered the door still dressed in his costume, his face shiny with sweat. “Hello,” he said with a shy smile. “Come in.”

Arthur did, pausing a moment to take in the room, which had a faint odour of mothballs. To the right, a comfortable looking couch framed the wall, and the rest of the room was filled with racks of costumes and loose props. A makeup table was the only other furniture, and there sat the flowers he’d sent earlier in the day along with the roses from the previous night.

“It’s not much, but it’s home,” Merlin joked from behind him.

When he turned, Merlin was dipping a tissue in petroleum jelly and wiping the stage makeup from his face.

“Sorry, I’ll just be a minute,” Merlin said, apologetic. Arthur made his way to the couch, trying not to stare, which was impossible, especially when Merlin turned and pulled his shirt over his head, unveiling a finely muscled back. Merlin’s skin was pale except for a tan ring around his neck, which Arthur attributed from the sun-exposure of their earlier walk. He had one small mole under his left shoulder blade. Arthur’s fingers longed to touch, but he was suddenly unsure. Perhaps Merlin had only invited him back to talk, which he could manage as long as Merlin put a shirt on and covered his inviting skin . . .

And then Merlin turned, still completely unaware of Arthur’s gaze, giving Arthur a full view of a toned chest and a smattering of chest hair which fanned out, leading to dusky nipples. He reached for one of his signature white button-downs and was just about to slip an arm into it when Arthur groaned.

It was an embarrassing sound of protest, and Arthur felt heat rise to his cheeks as Merlin glanced over at him.

“What?”

“Don’t,” Arthur said, arousal thick in his voice. “Don’t cover up. Please.”

They stared at one another, and even in the dim light Arthur could make out the embarrassed flush on Merlin’s cheeks.

“You’re so gorgeous,” Arthur said.

Merlin approached the couch with the grace of a big cat, his hips swaying just enough to be seductive. He would have thought it was an act but for the unsure expression on Merlin’s face.

When Merlin stood just a foot in front of him, he reached out, tentatively stroking the curves of Merlin’s sides, just above his trousers. There was a line of hair just under his navel, and a scar to the left, almost unnoticeable. Arthur traced it with his thumb.

“What happened here?”

Merlin’s fingers were in Arthur’s hair, threading against his scalp. “My appendix . . . it burst.”

“Oh,” was the only thing Arthur could say. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to the raised line.

“I nearly died. Stopped me from joining the army.”

Arthur looked up, confused until understanding dawned. Jesus, Merlin could have fought World War Two—perhaps this little scar had spared his life.

“Thank God.”

“No. I wanted to fight the Nazis.” He sighed. “I was so disappointed. What about you? You must have been in the war. A fit bloke like you.”

He didn’t want to lie, so evaded instead. “Let’s not talk about that.”

“What do you want to talk about?” Merlin was looking down at him, watching as Arthur’s lips travelled to his navel. His breath was coming in little bursts that Arthur could feel rise and fall under his hands.

“I don’t want to talk at all,” Arthur murmured against the soft skin of Merlin’s belly.

Merlin’s fingers dug deeper, scraped against his scalp in what Arthur took as assent. He licked out and tasted the salt of dried sweat, nuzzled into the hardening cock beneath Merlin’s trousers and breathed against it. Merlin whimpered and moved his pelvis forward, letting Arthur tease him as he grew firmer.

“Have you ever . . . have you . . .” Arthur could barely ask the question.

“I haven’t.”

“Jesus, never?”

“It’s . . . it’s stupid.” Merlin turned away to hide his embarrassment.

“What?”

“I was waiting for the right time. The right person.”

“Merlin . . .” Merlin was so hard. Arthur squeezed him through the fabric, wanting nothing more than to yank down his trousers and take that erection into his mouth. But Merlin deserved better than a quick shag in his dressing room.

“No, I know what you’re going to say, and it is right, it is, please, Arthur . . .”

The words were so plaintive, Arthur’s own cock ached. What if they never had another chance?

“Please . . .” Merlin was circling his hips now, hunching to get closer, the little movements eroding Arthur’s residual self-control.

“Okay, okay,” he said, and with trembling fingers undid Merlin’s fly to release him.

Merlin’s cock bobbed in front of Arthur’s lips, as slim and gorgeous as Merlin himself. Arthur licked around the head, pulling back the foreskin to reveal a shiny pink slit. He lapped at it, sucking the tip until Merlin moaned and thrust further into his mouth, over-stimulated.

Arthur let Merlin fuck his mouth, revelling in his whimpers, the way Merlin clawed desperately at his head and shoulders, hips stuttering. His cock grew thicker, heavy on Arthur’s tongue with the oncoming orgasm, which only made Arthur more focussed, wanting to swallow that release deep inside him. It didn’t take long, just one, two more hard sucks and then Merlin whined, high pitched, and spilled down Arthur’s throat.

Arthur continued sucking gently until Merlin gave a shaky laugh and pulled back. The eyes peering down at him seemed bright for a moment, almost gold, probably a trick of the light.

“Jesus, Arthur,” Merlin said as he clambered into Arthur’s lap and kissed him soundly, pushing his tongue into Arthur’s mouth and stroking fingers through his hair. Arthur couldn’t help squirming a bit against the pressure of Merlin’s arse, the friction only inflaming his arousal. He broke away for breath, gasping as Merlin’s mouth latched onto his neck and sucked into his flesh.

“Come back to my room with me,” Arthur said, his hips shifting helplessly. He wouldn’t last unless he had a moment to calm himself.

“Okay,” Merlin agreed.

After a few hasty adjustments, Arthur snagged the jelly and shoved it into his pocket, giving Merlin a cheeky smile. The corridor was mostly empty except for a few people still chatting near the stage door, and Arthur wondered where Agravaine was, how Merlin had kept him away. At that moment, it didn’t matter. Merlin followed close behind, not touching, but all the while Arthur felt the expectancy building between them. He tried to recall a time he’d ever been this eager to get a man into his bed, and couldn’t.

Arthur’s hotel room was sorted and clean, the bed freshly made. He was about to offer Merlin a drink from the bar when the other man startled him by pushing him up against the closed door, kissing him with intent as he palmed Arthur’s half-hard cock through his trousers. Now it was Arthur’s turn to groan, his length filling again, stiffening against Merlin’s clumsy hand.

They shed their clothes in silence, eyes focussed on each other, and when they were fully naked, Arthur pulled Merlin close again, aligning their bodies as Merlin’s mouth opened to his in a wet kiss.

“I want . . . God, I want you to fuck me,” Merlin whispered, running his hands all over Arthur’s body, skimming down his chest and around to the base of his spine. His touch left a pattern of warmth on Arthur’s skin.

Arthur kissed him again, backing him toward the bed.

Merlin was still sensitive from his orgasm, and he let Arthur manhandle him onto his back, though he blushed when Arthur rubbed the taut skin behind his bollocks, tracing a path to the soft furl of his hole.

“Is this okay?” Arthur asked, pressing the tip of one finger inside. Merlin squirmed, the blush growing deeper, colouring his ears red.

“You can do more.”

Arthur opened Merlin slowly, working the lubricant into him, using some of it to slick Merlin’s cock and his own. He couldn’t remember being with someone so genuinely artless, but what Merlin lacked in experience, he made up for with eagerness. His cock hardened again as Arthur added a second finger and sucked his bollocks, lashing them with his tongue as Merlin stared down at him with dark, wondering eyes. There was a brief flash of déjà vu with Merlin spread out under him like this, but it quickly passed, leaving them cocooned in a moment with no past and no future. Arthur pushed Merlin’s legs back to access his hole, breathing in the scent of him, teasing the loosening rim with his tongue before pressing it in alongside his fingers. It didn’t take long before he’d found the place that made Merlin cry out that he was ready, to do it now.

When Arthur finally sheathed himself and pushed inside, the pressure almost made him come. He held his breath and waited for the threat of orgasm to subside before snugging his hips against Merlin’s arse with a grunt, sinking into the clench and the heat. Once seated, he almost didn’t want to move, but then Merlin arched against him and he withdrew, the first full stroke painful with restraint. Arthur gazed down at Merlin’s face and met wide eyes fixated on him.

“Are you all right?” he asked, voice tight. He’d never been tested like this before, the urge to thrust and fuck and own overpowering.

“I’m fine.” Merlin smiled, but a trace of pain under the words belied the statement. “It doesn’t hurt . . . that much.”

“Just breathe. It’ll get better.”

Merlin nodded as Arthur moved again, leaning down for a kiss as he angled for the right spot inside Merlin, the one he had found earlier with his fingers. Merlin gave a shocked gasp, hands clawing Arthur’s shoulders.

“There, love,” Arthur said. “Just relax.”

Merlin’s mouth dropped open as Arthur filled him, slotting his hips between Merlin’s thighs with long, slow thrusts.

“Feels—”

“How does it feel?” Arthur asked, well aware he was panting. “Tell me.”

“Good. It feels good. You’re so . . . deep. Does it—” Merlin said, just as breathless. “Does it feel good for you?”

Arthur had to force back a laugh. “You have no idea. Feels amazing inside you.” He slid deep, cock flexing with pleasure.

“God, Arthur,” Merlin moaned. “Go harder.”

He wanted to make it last, but his need was too great, Merlin too sweet around him. Working his hips in lazy circles, he started to fuck like he wanted, answering Merlin’s pleas for more with unrelenting strokes. Merlin’s cock was leaking between them, and Arthur guided their hands to it together, stroking in time with his thrusts. It was almost like Arthur knew instinctually where Merlin wanted to be touched, how fast to move, how to ask with his eyes for a kiss.

When his orgasm began to crest, Arthur bore down, unable to hold back the force of it as he slammed his hips, driving himself as far as he could go. He came with a moan and a brutal plunge, filling the condom inside Merlin with his release. All through it, Merlin chanted his name in the most wonderful, familiar way.

Even as his climax ebbed, Merlin was still grinding down on his cock and stripping his own with barely restrained whimpers. His eyes were shut and he was biting his bottom lip hard enough to leave an imprint.

“Look at me,” Arthur murmured, cock still twitching aftershocks.

Merlin did, and Arthur gasped. His eyes were glowing a brilliant gold, staring beyond Arthur like he couldn’t even see him. Something heavy behind them crashed to the floor just as Merlin came, coating his hand and both of their bellies with slick, warm seed. Merlin’s eyes seemed to spark brighter, and then they closed.

Arthur slipped from Merlin, his heart beating wildly as he glanced around the room. The heavy chest of drawers was knocked over, its contents spilled everywhere. Arthur looked back to Merlin in shock. His eyes, now their normal deep blue, regarded him warily.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I couldn’t help it.”

“What _was_ that?”

Merlin cringed. “I’m . . . I guess you could say that I have . . . magic.”

“You have magic.” Unable to stop himself, Arthur barked out a laugh, and Merlin watched him as if he’d gone insane. Of course Merlin would have magic, of course—it all made a strange sort of sense. The old man . . . the old man who’d given him the watch. A thrill of cold understanding went through him. He had just enough presence of mind left to remove and tie off the condom, discarding it in the bin while Merlin watched, his words coming in a rush.

“Yes. Um. Sometimes when I’m really angry or happy or . . .” Merlin flushed. “I can’t control it. It sounds horribly strange. I won’t be angry if you want me to go.” Already Merlin was clambering up off the bed, his lithe body unfurling.

Merlin’s statement brought Arthur out of his head. He grabbed Merlin’s arm before he could get far, worried about the resistance he felt. “I don’t want you to leave.” He couldn’t stop thinking about Merlin’s golden eyes, but where there should have been fear, there was only fascination.

“You don’t?”

“No. I don’t. You can trust me, Merlin.”

“No one knows my secret. Agravaine says if anyone finds out I’ll be locked away.”

“Agravaine knows?”

Merlin nodded, looking weary. “Yes . . . I was in Cardiff and I got myself in a bad spot, ganged up on by a group of lads. I used . . . I used my magic to knock them out and Agravaine saw.” As Merlin spoke, he stood to face the broken armoire. Arthur watched in disbelief as Merlin made a couple quick motions with his hands, righting the thing and clearing the mess. “I knew he was right. It’s why I had run away from my aunt to begin with. She thought I was a monster.”

“Bloody hell.” Arthur could barely contain his rage at the thought of Merlin’s aunt treating him like that, just a boy who’d lost his mother, but the easy display of power in front of him was incredibly distracting.

“Maybe she was right. I’ve never met anyone else . . . like me.”

“There’s no one else like you,” Arthur said. All of a sudden, more things clicked into place—Merlin’s dependence on Agravaine was tied to his fear of being found out, locked up. And Agravaine, the utter bastard, knew Merlin would never leave or disobey him.

Now that the mess had been cleared, Merlin stood, naked and vulnerable in the centre of the room. Arthur went to him, pulling him close and marvelling at how perfectly Merlin fit in his arms.

“I’m afraid he’s planning something,” Merlin whispered. “He was so angry earlier, after our walk. I’ve never seen him like that before. He even mentioned cancelling the final performance tomorrow and leaving early.”

“Jesus.” Arthur hadn’t let himself consider the fact that Merlin’s production would be moving on so soon.

“He can’t. The tickets are all sold. It was just a lot of bluster, but . . . he threatened me again tonight. Told me that I couldn’t see you again, that I’d have to break this off. That’s why he left. I . . . told him I would.” The words cut like a hot knife. Arthur wrapped his arms more tightly.

“You can’t stay with him,” Arthur said, trying to maintain his calm so as not to frighten Merlin further. “He has no right to hold your magic over your head. You’re free, but he’s got you thinking you’re not.”

“But I owe him—”

“You owe him nothing, Merlin. Nothing. He’s a selfish, greedy bastard who sees something beautiful and wants to keep it for himself in a cage.”

“I have nowhere else to go.” Merlin buried his head against Arthur’s shoulder. “And even if I did, he’d find me. I know he wouldn’t give up so easily.”

Impulsively, Arthur said, “Come away with me. We’ll go somewhere, back to England, get a small cottage in the middle of nowhere and no one will ever find us.”

Merlin let out a sigh. “What a lovely dream.”

“It doesn’t have to be a dream. I can protect you. I’d never let anyone harm you.”

When Merlin looked at him again, it was with tears in his eyes. “I almost believe you.”

“Believe me. I’ll find a way.”

 

~o~

In the morning, Arthur awoke alone. Bolting upright, he scanned the room and listened for any sounds of Merlin in the loo, but was met only with silence. Weary, and with the beginnings of a tension headache, he threw back the bedclothes and stood, smiling wistfully at the garments strewn all over the room until a piece of paper on the nightstand caught his attention.

_Arthur,_

_I’m sorry I left without saying goodbye, but I couldn’t bear to disturb you. You smile when you sleep—did you know that?_

_Last night was the best of my life, and I don’t want it to be over. If you were serious about what you said, come to my hotel room (213) before the performance tonight. We’ll make a plan. God, Arthur, I know this is crazy, and I can’t possibly feel like this, but I do. I love you._

_Merlin._

It took Arthur a minute to register what the note was saying—Merlin loved him. Loved him! And what was equally shocking, unexpected, and perfect—he might even be willing to break free from Agravaine. Though the note held no details, Arthur allowed his mind to travel in a million different directions. They’d leave tonight, after the show. He should see about booking their fares on a train or a boat, or perhaps he could even get a car. They’d take a bloody stagecoach if necessary . . . and go far away, quickly in the night before Agravaine caught wind of their plan.

It wasn’t until he caught himself in the mirror that he realized he was grinning like a madman, his hair stuck up in crazy directions.

Reality made an unwelcome appearance when, later, after he’d washed and dressed, he noticed that his roll of notes had begun to dwindle. He’d have to get a job wherever they went, obviously, but he could only hope that it was enough to get them there.

A job. Arthur experienced a momentary pang when he thought of his career. He’d worked so hard to be recognized as an author and now here he was without an identity, without any papers, for God’s sake. How could he leave the country without a passport? For the first time since he’d read the note, uncertainty lodged like a boulder on his chest. Despite his imagination, Arthur had always been a practical man—too practical, according to Morgana, who’d often chastised him for his utilitarian views on relationships. Merlin’s well-being was the most important thing, and he had no doubt they could sort through the rest in time, but that left him with the biggest problem of all—he had to tell Merlin the truth about himself, where he was from.

He didn’t think Merlin would laugh at him or be afraid—if he could convince him he wasn’t merely insane. After all, Merlin had magic and must be more open to strange happenings than the average person, especially since Arthur was more convinced than ever it had been Merlin who’d given him the watch in the first place. He patted his pocket, assuring himself the thing was still there. If he showed Merlin the watch, maybe Merlin would be able to determine what kind of magic had caused the time jump and, hopefully, be able to allay Arthur’s fears that time might be running out.

Because if his stint here was limited, what would happen to Merlin after he was gone?

Steeling himself, Arthur took a deep breath, pausing with his hand on the door. He needed to get himself together and put all of those worries aside for now. They had to secure Merlin’s safety first.

Arthur spent the day preparing for their departure. He was able to book two tickets on a train to San Francisco (the irony was not lost on him that that had been his next stop on tour), and procure accommodations there in a small, out of the way boarding house, where he’d registered them as brothers under false names. Once they arrived, they could decide the next stage of the plan together.

He packed his bags and then spent a few hours frantically writing, wanting to capture everything that had happened so he would never forget—the first time he saw Merlin in the flesh, how his hand had felt, the way their bodies moved together. He wrote it all and then stared at the pages before him, rueful at the inadequacy of his words.

Finally, unable to wait any longer, he found himself in front of Merlin’s door at half past five. He knocked, his earlier worries vanishing at the prospect of seeing Merlin.

The man who answered the door was not who he was expecting.

“Hello, Arthur Pendragon, is it?” Agravaine smiled widely, showing all of his teeth. There was absolutely nothing inviting about the expression.

“It is. Where’s Merlin?”

“Oh, out at dinner with another admirer. You know how actors are, fickle people. He sends his apologies.”

Arthur didn’t believe him for a minute. “I’ll wait,” he said, elbowing his way into the room. He glanced around, looking for any sign of Merlin, and was disappointed to find nothing but hotel sterility.

The sound of the door clicking shut behind him made Arthur turn. Face to face with Agravaine alone, Arthur allowed himself a moment of assessment. The older man was shorter than he but a couple inches, but his demeanour was of a man not afraid of a fight, should it come to it. Not that Arthur was. He watched cautiously as Agravaine stepped forward, his own gaze sliding up Arthur’s body in a way that could only be described as unsettling.

“So you’re the one planning to steal away my protégé.” The comment was made lightly, but had the same menacing undercurrent as always.

Arthur grimaced. “Merlin isn’t a _thing_ to be stolen.”

“Oh. Isn’t he?”

“No. He’s a person, and he’s capable of making his own decisions.”

“A very talented person.”

“Undoubtedly.” Arthur caught a glint in Agravaine’s eye that told him he hadn’t expected Arthur to understand his double-entendre.

“And you think his decision to run off with you is in his best interests, when he has the entire world at his feet. Merlin is a star. People love him and he loves what he does. The next stop is Hollywood, don’t you know? Would you take that away from him?”

“Of course not! Merlin can continue to act wherever he is. If he wants to do films—”

“Oh, really? Do you think his reputation will survive, that he will still get roles, when it is discovered he’s taken up with a homosexual lover?”

Agravaine’s comment had the desired effect. Arthur stopped in his tracks, mouth gaping slightly. As hard as it was for gay actors to be out in 2012, in 1947 the social mores were grossly prohibitive. Still, they could find a way to keep the truth of their relationship a secret if need be, couldn’t they?

The older man’s oily laugh made Arthur bristle. He thought he’d won, but Arthur wasn’t ready to give up. “You’re holding his magic over his head to get him to stay with you.”

Now it was Agravaine’s turn to be befuddled. He quickly schooled his features, shuttering his surprise, but it had been there.

“I’m _helping him_ do the thing he loves. _Protecting him_ from those who would harm him. And you, so noble, you would allow his . . . _infatuation_ ,” Agravaine uttered the word with disdain, “for you to take precedence, thereby ending his career. Which one of us, I ask, is the more selfish man?”

Though the words resonated, Arthur refused to let the bastard see his doubt. “You treat Merlin like chattel, threaten him. He’s _afraid_ of you. Nothing you can say can convince me that you’re doing this out of the good of your heart.”

All pretences gone, Agravaine sneered. Arthur didn’t notice until he heard the telltale _click_ that a revolver was pointed straight at his chest, the oiled steel glistening black. “Perhaps this will convince you,” Agravaine said, voice deadly calm. “I will give you five seconds to walk out that door and out of Merlin’s life, or you will find your lover at the end of this gun instead of yourself.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, wouldn’t I?”

“But you . . . you need him.”

Agravaine smiled coldly. “Haven’t you heard the old adage, ‘if I can’t have him, no one can’?”

Arthur’s heart, which had stopped at the first sight of the gun, had resumed a furious beat. His stomach clenched up, nauseous at the thought of Merlin lying dead on the floor in a pool of his own blood.

“You bastard.”

“I’m counting . . .”

There was no choice, Arthur realised, feeling the gun at his back even as he walked toward the door. He had no way of knowing if Agravaine was posturing to get him to back down, but he couldn’t take the risk if Merlin’s life was at stake. Agravaine was unhinged, but his threats had had the opposite effect as intended. Never had it been clearer that Merlin needed to get away from the man, and fast.

 

~o~

The evening wore on, and Arthur wore a track in his hotel room floor. He’d attempted to go backstage to find Merlin, only to be blocked by two armed security guards, undoubtedly put on the lookout by Agravaine. He’d weighed his options and finally decided being pistol-whipped was the least appealing or useful. Tickets were impossible to come by, since it was the final performance, and so eventually Arthur had retreated back to his room to think. Never had he so longed for the modern conveniences of technology—if they’d only had mobiles, he could just type a quick message to Merlin and that would be that. It was a small marvel people had ever survived without them.

Ten o’clock came and went, and Arthur grew increasingly desperate. He had the front desk connect him to Merlin’s room and no one answered. Jesus, they couldn’t have left already? Fear gripped his chest at the idea that he might never see Merlin again, but he didn’t want to chance leaving his room in case Merlin came by.

At eleven, a knock on the door had him running, flinging it wide.

“Merlin,” he said, sighing with relief as Merlin rushed inside, pushing him back into the room and shutting the door. Aside from being harried and out of breath, Merlin was in one piece. Arthur allowed himself a moment of trailing his hands over Merlin’s face, down his shoulders. He was dressed in a dark suit, as if for travel, and it was only then Arthur realised Merlin was carrying a small valise. A flood of happiness so acute it was nearly painful made him light-headed. Merlin set down his case.

“Arth—”

He gathered Merlin close by his lapels, silencing him with a kiss that didn’t go beyond a firm press of lips, but was in its very force claiming. Maybe he was selfish, but Arthur allowed himself a moment to revel in the fact that Merlin had chosen him, and that everything else would sort itself out.

“I got tickets for the train to San Francisco,” Arthur said once they had broken away. “It leaves in two hours. Tell me you’ll come.”

“I will,” Merlin said, kissing him. “I will. Agravaine’s in his room for the night, but he’ll notice I’ve left soon enough.”

“He threatened me. Told me he’d kill you . . .”

“It doesn’t matter.” Merlin kissed him again, smiling. “He can’t hurt us now.”

“Are you sure you want this? It won’t be easy.”

“Yes, yes. I thought about leaving you and I just . . . it felt like a part of me had died, like I wouldn’t ever be happy again.”

Arthur nodded, knowing the feeling exactly. Still, though, there was the matter of the truth to contend with.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” Arthur said. Merlin stilled, his eyes growing wider.

“Don’t tell me you’re married. You’re not, are you?”

“God, no, nothing like that!” Arthur laughed, but sobered immediately, realising what he was about to say sounded completely mad even to his own ears. And he’d lived it.

“I’m not from here,” he started.

“I know. You’re from England, obviously.” Merlin grinned.

“No . . . Merlin . . . I’m from much farther away than that.” As the story began to spill from his lips, he watched Merlin’s expression morph from confusion to disbelief to worry. He left nothing out, starting with the encounter with the old man at the party and Merlin’s picture and ending with his run-in with Agravaine that afternoon.

“You’re telling me you’re . . . from the _future_.” Merlin said the words as if he was speaking to a small child.

Arthur grimaced. “I know I sound like a nutter, but it’s the truth. I swear it.”

“And you think I was the old man who gave you the watch.”

“Yes.” Arthur procured the item in question from his pocket, held it out dangling on its golden chain.

Merlin accepted it, a flush of recognition passing over his face. “Oh my God.”

“What is it?”

“I can’t believe it. This . . . this is my father’s watch! I haven’t seen it in years, thought it was lost after my mum died, sold along with the estate, such as it was.” He spoke softly, turning the device over in his palm as if it were a delicate bird.

“Your father’s watch?”

“It was the only thing we had of his . . . my mother would never talk about him, but I always suspected maybe he was different. Like me. I mean, I had to get my talent somewhere, and my mother certainly didn’t know magic.”

All of the details were shifting in Arthur’s brain like unruly puzzle pieces, but there were bits still missing. How had Merlin come to be in possession of the watch, how had he known to bring it to Arthur? And where was the older version of Merlin now?

Merlin seemed to be considering some of the same questions. He took a seat on the side of Arthur’s bed, tracing the golden dragon design on the case with his finger.

“So somehow . . . this watch has the capability of transporting people through time and space . . . but how does it work?”

“You believe me?” Arthur noticed the relief in his own voice, the tension in his shoulders dissipating.

Merlin shrugged. “Of course.”

“That’s a relief. I thought you’d think I was crazy for sure.”

“I’ve been moving things with my mind ever since I can remember,” Merlin said, grinning. “It would take a lot more than time travel for me to think you were crazy.”

Merlin’s attention was still on the watch. He flipped it open and stared at the two small dials on the left, which Arthur had always figured had been to wind the time—maybe . . .

“When the old man gave it to me, it seemed to be broken, but as soon as I woke up here it worked like a charm.”

“Hmm. Then perhaps it needs to be set to a particular time?”

“I’m not sure.”

Merlin clicked the watch shut again. “All right, it’s certainly a puzzle, but we don’t have time to figure out how it works now. Maybe once we’re settled . . .”

“Yes, we’ll have time,” Arthur agreed. Perhaps if they went back to England they could inquire with Merlin’s aunt, as horrible as she seemed to be. Maybe she knew something of Merlin’s father. Just then a sense of foreboding passed through him, making him shudder.

“What is it?” Merlin stood up, concerned.

“Merlin, do you think Agravaine knows about the watch?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“How did your father die?”

“He was a merchant seaman. His ship was lost on the Bering Straight just after I was born.”

Things were starting to click . . . Arthur’s head hurt with the force of it . . . if Agravaine had known Merlin’s father, perhaps he knew about the watch and suspected Merlin had it in his possession. Wouldn’t that help account for his ‘discovery’ of Merlin, his obsession, his need to keep Merlin with him and in line? Merlin’s magic was one thing, but the ability to move through time and space quite another . . . in the wrong hands . . .

“There’s no time,” Merlin said, his voice worried. “We have to leave now or we’ll never make the train.”

“Right, you’re right.”

“Are you all packed?”

“Yes.”

“Sure you haven’t left anything behind?”

Arthur watched Merlin poke about the room, doing a last minute check. It was such a domestic action, one that a concerned partner might perform. He smiled, wondering if that was what they would be now.

“Wait, Arthur, what’s this?”

Merlin was bent near the side of the bed, his hand extending under to grab something—probably an item another guest had left behind, because Arthur was sure he’d been thorough.

When Merlin straightened, he held a black device in his hand . . . oh, Arthur almost laughed—that’s where his damn mobile went!

He grabbed it, tried to say something, to explain, but the words died in his throat. He couldn’t speak. He stared at the mobile, then back to Merlin.

“Arthur?” Merlin’s eyes were wide with terror, his voice growing fainter as he reached out.

Arthur tried to reach back, but could no longer move his arm . . . he was drowning, couldn’t breathe . . . his vision swirled, Merlin’s face at the centre of a tunnel of black . . .

“ARTHUR!”

 

~o~

A faint noise woke him, growing louder as Arthur regained consciousness. Flashes of strange dreams assaulted him as he stirred. A young boy wearing a kerchief and hurling insults. Castle walls, grey in the early morning light . . . a throne room, and at its centre, the prone body of a dead king.

The same boy gazing up at him through thick lashes, licking his lips.

_Merlin. Merlin._

“Arthur? Arthur, damn it, open up; you can’t be that hung-over!”

_Morgana._

His sister. Not Merlin. The odd dream fading away, Arthur leapt out of bed, barely restraining the urge to scream. Just two minutes ago he’d been with Merlin, ready to leave, to run away together, and then—

The mobile. Merlin’s distress as Arthur tried to grasp onto him, unable to move his body. Oh God, oh God. This couldn’t be happening.

“Arthur, you better bloody well be unconscious. I’m going to be very put out if we miss our flight.”

Their flight—to San Francisco. A pang of crippling despair made him suck in a breath. At some point, he realised he was searching through his room looking for any trace of Merlin, for anything that proved what had happened had been real . . .

There was nothing. Of course, he knew it had been . . . there was no doubt in his mind . . . He couldn’t leave, not if he could find some way to get back. He had to—

“There’s a naked man in there with you, isn’t there?”

Understanding his sister wasn’t going to leave him alone without a proper reason, Arthur stood, noticing for the first time he was wearing the same clothes he’d fallen asleep in days before.

When he opened the door, he was surprised at how good it was to see her, despite his anguish. She was dressed impeccably as always, her hair falling in gentle waves over his shoulders.

“We need to go.” She pointed at her watch, tapping a long, manicured nail on the face. “Chop, chop.”

“Morg,” he whispered, pulling her close and breathing her perfume. He was ready to shatter, and her arms wrapping round and hugging back were the only things keeping him together.

She chuckled, squeezing tight before pulling back, her face growing concerned as she took in his expression. “What’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

As he considered how to answer, her frown grew more pronounced. If he told her the truth she’d attribute it to his imagination, assure him it was a dream. He didn’t want those appeasements, not when his memories of Merlin had already begun growing faint.

“Arthur?”

“I’m not coming with you to San Francisco.”

Her brow furrowed in confusion. “What in the world do you mean? You’re giving a lecture next week.”

“I’ll be there,” he lied. “But I’m staying here another night, I’ve decided.”

That statement seemed to resonate with her. She smiled faintly. “You met someone.”

“What? No.” Her incredulous look stopped him from hedging too entirely.

“God, I can see it all over your face. You . . . was it SexyGwaine?”

Arthur thought back to that encounter, which, though pleasant, didn’t hold a candle to what he’d felt with Merlin. But still, it was a convenient alibi. He didn’t answer.

“Ha! Didn’t I always tell you it would happen someday when you least expected it? I knew it. Please give me just a minute to gloat.” She grinned.

Well, she certainly wasn’t far from the truth.

“I just need another day. Or two.”

“Or three, or four?”

“Perhaps.” They’d planned to spend a week in the city before his lecture and then fly back to London, a last American hurrah before the tour was over. Arthur knew, though, that he wouldn’t be going to San Francisco.

“All right, darling. I’ll go by myself, maybe have a bit of fun of my own.”

“You should.”

Once he was alone, the full weight of his despair threatened to overwhelm him again. His body felt hollow . . . all he could think of was Merlin’s smile. God, his _trust_ in Arthur, and now he’d been left to Agravaine and whatever horrible fate lay in store. Arthur scrubbed his face with his hands, fighting the rising hysteria until something chafed against his thigh. He reached into his pocket, eyes blurring as he pulled out the note he’d read a hundred times, written in a now-familiar scrawl. _I know this is crazy, and I can’t possibly feel like this, but I do. I love you._ It been real then, it had been real. He clutched the crumpled piece of paper like a lifeline.

Arthur roamed the corridors of the hotel that now felt like a prison, looking for Kilgharrah, but the old man was nowhere to be found. He stood before Merlin’s portrait and let his fingers linger over the beloved lips, allowing himself to recall the strange dream Morgana had interrupted: not of Merlin as an actor, but another Merlin, in another time.

That night he dreamed of a place that he knew was called Camelot. He dreamed of being a prince, then a king, Merlin always by his side. At first Merlin had been an irritation, the worst manservant to walk the castle halls, but then things changed . . . he remembered when Merlin became his everything, the day he lay desperately ill, so close to death that the smell of it was thick in the air. They had saved each other again and again, their lives twining round each other until they wouldn’t have been able to extricate themselves if they’d tried. He dreamed of the day he discovered Merlin’s magic, felt the fear in his lover’s heart, his own anger at the lie he experienced as a betrayal. And then his own marriage to a young girl whom he had he fooled himself into thinking he loved.

Years of loneliness until Merlin came back into his life. Their mutual forgiveness. Perfect joy.

The dream shifted, became another, more recognisable version of Merlin. Arthur woke, hopeful, only to fall into dark depression when he realised where he was.

It was too hard to face, and so he let himself drift again, his despair acting as a sedative through that day and the next night. His mobile rang at intervals but he didn’t bother to answer it, finally silencing the thing.

He didn’t eat or drink, and thought perhaps it would be better if he died so that they could start again. Maybe they’d get another chance, someday. The one thing Arthur did, beside sleep, was write. He wrote in a fever, half delirious from too much sleep and too little food, his brain unable to handle the deluge of memories and loss, needing to get it on paper. His task now was to record their story, all of their stories—God, he remembered them all now, his father, Morgana, Gwen—had to get them down before he forgot.

His hotel phone rang and he unplugged it. On the second—or was it the third—day a woman knocked, asking if he were all right, and he answered in a voice hoarse from disuse that yes, he was fine. After all, he didn’t need the cleaning service . . . he was waiting for someone . . . for his manservant. No, for his lover.

He slept and hoped he wouldn’t wake.

Another day, and Arthur drifted back into miserable consciousness. He wondered if he’d have the strength to do it, to really end himself. It was an intense, unbearable thirst that finally got him into the bathroom where he filled a glass of water and drank it down, hand trembling. Once his body had a taste, he became frantic, gulping until his stomach, unsettled from disuse, expelled up all he had drunk. The next time, he sipped carefully, not allowing himself to indulge, all the while angry that his body had these needs that were impossible to deny, that he was perhaps too weak-willed to die.

Lying back on his bed, he stared at the ceiling, the hunger he’d repressed for days clawing at his insides like an angry animal.

Later in the day, another knock woke him from his half-sleep. Morgana had probably gotten worried and sent another staff member to check on him.

“Go away,” he told the door.

“Arthur?”

The soft, familiar voice struck a fresh pain through him. It couldn’t possibly belong to Merlin. It was just a delusion, his mind finally packing up and leaving him insane. He laughed. If this were madness, he’d take it gladly.

“Arthur? Are you in there? Open up. Please.”

Arthur didn’t want to open the door because he knew once he did the fantasy would shatter. Still, he got heavily to his feet and made the trek across the room, so fatigued he could barely stand as he unlatched the lock and opened the door.

“Jesus, Arthur!” Merlin was standing in the corridor wearing a white button down shirt, just open at the collar like Arthur loved.

“This is the best dream.” He regarded the apparition blearily.

“It’s not a dream, I swear. I’m here. I remembered, I remembered all of it after you disappeared. Jeez, will you let me in?”

Arthur stepped aside and admitted the hallucination into his room, let it wrap him in strong arms and hold him close. He clung for dear life, knowing that if he let go he’d sink to the floor and never get up again.

“Oh, no, what have you been doing? Oh, Arthur.” There were gentle hands helping him to his bed, gentle fingers prying him off and down onto the dirty sheets. When he opened his eyes again, Merlin’s illusion stood over him with a glass of water.

He allowed ‘Merlin’ to help him drink, thankful his imagination had created such a helpful and realistic figment, and then he closed his eyes again.

When he woke, there was food. The hallucination, who’d begun to seem like much less of a hallucination, was asking Arthur to eat.

The first bite was nauseating, but soon his hunger returned with ravenous force. He’d soon cleaned the entire plate. ‘Merlin’ seemed pleased.

“You look better,” the figment of his imagination said. “Now will you please listen to me and accept the fact that I’m real? Here, feel.”

Arthur reached out and touched Merlin’s wrist. The bone was solid, the skin warm.

“I think I’m really crazy.”

“You’re not. After you disappeared I remembered everything, all of my old magic. I remembered being him, that other Merlin. If you hadn’t come back I never would have. I think that’s why the old man . . . why _I_ gave you the watch to begin with. I don’t think it was ever supposed to be permanent, you back there. Arthur, I—”

“But the watch, it didn’t work. I got sent back, what if you—”

Merlin held up his hand. “Let me finish. I didn’t use the watch. I used my own magic.”

Shocked, Arthur could only say, “Oh.”

“Rather impressive, if I do say so myself.”

“How?”

“Honestly, I was . . . I was desperate . . . I figured it was that thing I found on the ground that must have broken the spell and sent you back. I panicked. I ran back to my room with the watch determined to figure out how to make it work, and Agravaine was there, he was there and you were right, Arthur. He knew about my father’s watch.”

It was finally sinking in. Arthur lurched from the bed and grabbed Merlin, tackling him so that they fell back together in a tangle of limbs. For a moment they kissed, Arthur forgetting all about the fact that he hadn’t showered and was probably horrible; in any case, Merlin didn’t seem to mind. He laughed, snuggling closer.

“So you finally believe me?”

“I do . . . I’m sorry. I just haven’t really been myself the past few days.”

“I can see that.” Merlin’s voice was soft. He ran fingers through Arthur’s hair, his concern evident.

“But what happened with Agravaine?”

“We had a fight and he tried to take the watch, said I didn’t even need it, anyway, that with my talent I could already travel, so I should give it to him instead.”

Arthur felt as confused as he ever had, still high on endorphins and sluggish from days of near-insanity. But what Merlin was saying had begun to make strange sense.

“What do you mean, you can travel?”

“I pressed him, told him I’d give him the watch if he told me what he knew of my father. Of course I was lying.” From his pocket, Merlin produced the object in question, grinning.

“Aren’t you the devious one?”

Merlin pinked a bit about the ears, looking proud. “So, yes, he knew my father had been a time-dragon—but until he met me he thought that Balinor was the last.”

“A time-dragon?” Arthur raised an eyebrow. Now that the food had begun to have a salutary effect and he had Merlin, the real Merlin, safely in his arms, Arthur felt he might be afforded a bit of sarcasm.

“I know, it’s silly, but apparently that’s what they’re called, wizards with a gift for time-travel.”

Arthur laughed.

“Shut up. Anyway, it turns out that my father made the watch because he wanted to be able to share his gift with others. But apparently it has some glitches.”

“Apparently.”

Merlin laughed, wrapping his arms tightly around Arthur, whose body had begun to respond from the proximity.

“So you’re here. You’re really here.” He couldn’t stop touching Merlin, kissing him.

“I’m really here.”

“But how did you do it?”

“All I had to do was want it bad enough. I . . . God, Arthur, I wanted to be with you.”

Arthur’s breath caught in his throat. “And you remember?”

“I remember it all, Camelot, Uther, Morgana, you. I think we just got the timing a little wrong on this one. But that’s all sorted now.”

Arthur kissed him again. “Because of you, you beautiful idiot.”

“No, it was you, you ridiculous clotpole.”

“Oh God, the others. Do you think we should tell them?” Arthur looked down at Merlin, now trapped beneath his body, his blue eyes faintly tinged with gold.

“Will they think we’re mad?”

“Probably.”

“Maybe we should hold off.”

“Agreed.”

After all, they’d have plenty of time.


End file.
